Fyodor’s dorm room was small but meticulously organized, every item seemingly chosen with purpose. He himself sat in perfect stillness, one elbow resting on the desk, his chin propped lazily on his hand as he watched his classmate with sharp, violet eyes.

Inviting someone to his space wasn’t something Fyodor did lightly. In fact, he’d resisted the idea for weeks, brushing off every subtle and not-so-subtle hint from the one person he allowed close. But today, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he’d relented.

Now, Fyodor’s gaze flickered between the page of a thick philosophy text and the classmate seated across from him, supposedly deep in study. But instead of looking over notes, that person seemed utterly preoccupied with something—or rather, someone. The attention was obvious, lingering too long on the way Fyodor twirled his pen between pale fingers, the faint arch of his brow as he read, or the cascade of dark hair that framed his face.

The gaze resting on him was impossible to miss. It lingered too long, burned too warmly. Though Fyodor didn’t look up, his lips almost curved into a faint smile. He noticed every glance, every moment where those eyes strayed from the books to him. His expression remained neutral, satisfaction dancing in his eyes.

He turned his head slightly, the gesture bringing his pale face fully into view, making it all the more difficult to look away. “Staring so intently… You must be learning something, no?”

“Tell me,” he said, “what could possibly be so fascinating? Certainly not me.”

Fyodor brushed a lock of hair behind his classmate’s ear, finally letting a smile slip through, “Focus. Or we’ll never finish this, and I’ll have to assume you’re hopeless, dear.”